Enthrallment
by bergamots
Summary: Wrath may be the first human homunculus, but that doesn't necessarily mean he understands them.
1. Chapter 1

_wrath is def my fav homunculus for many reasons but above all his humanity – and the lack thereof. this will be a series of small drabbles? ficlets? from wrath's pov on riza hawkeye, and the relationship she has with her beloved superior officer._

 _warnings: some gorey/not-nice thoughts_

* * *

The first few weeks that First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye is under his command he doesn't really pay her much attention. _She_ is not the one that they need to be focusing on their attentions on – she doesn't pose any real threat to their operation. King Bradley may not be as durable or immortal as his siblings might be, but he would wager that she would run out of bullets before he would run out of regeneration energy.

He begrudgingly admits that against Mustang it would be a completely different story.

Nevertheless, he is surprised at how seamlessly she fits into his personal detail, how quickly she blends in alongside his other bodyguards. It irks him a little that she does not stand out – she is, after all, meant to be a remarkable woman. The stories that followed her from the training academy to Ishval to East City to here in Central speak otherwise of a woman who – by his estimations – has largely failed to meet his expectations.

Bradley decides that perhaps a more personal approach is needed when it comes to the Colonel. It is one thing to have a hostage and say empty threats; it is another entirely to be that insignificant as a hostage that your captors find themselves struggling to use you in any meaningful way. Perhaps that was their plan – to keep their heads down and attract as little attention as possible. It is not a bad plan, and under any other circumstances he would be more than happy to not have to give them any more thought – but unfortunately for Führer King Bradley he does not get that luxury. Colonel Mustang needs to know that his entire team is in danger – but more importantly, his _precious_ subordinate's life hangs in the balance.

He wonders how Mustang would react if he killed her right now, in his office. A quick cut would be all he needed – and the Lieutenant would be dripping all over his imported rug, hands desperately trying to stem the flow from her neck, staining her uniform an ugly burgundy shade that would cling to her in awkward angles.

She would die within three minutes. Even if he gave the man a courtesy call, he would never reach here in time. She would gasp and grab at what precious moments she had left, with only him to watch, to listen. He would watch her with disdain – she did not deserve his pity, or his respect.

"Tell me something, Lieutenant Hawkeye," he says, as he watches her prepare his tea. She is so quiet, and he needs to be reminded that she is _useful_ and _should not be killed for fun._

"Sir?"

"If I were to kill you right now, what do you think your _beloved_ would do?" his voice curls almost bitterly around the endearment, but she hardly notices as she stiffens, colour draining from her face.

"Are you referring to Colonel Mustang?" she asks, finally, straightening her back. There is hardly a waver in her voice – though he can see from here that she is breathing quicker, her forehead beading with sweat.

"He is, is he not?" he asks, leaning forward onto his desk, watching her very carefully.

Lieutenant Hawkeye hesitates, before shaking her head. "I believe you are mistaken, sir," she says quietly.

"Am I? I was under the impression that you were only one of Mustang's team that would keep him in check. Maybe you are disposable after all."

No reaction this time. _Interesting_.

"Is there anything else you require, sir? Brigadier-General Folster is waiting outside to see you presently." She meets his stare firmly, her previous reaction all but forgotten.

Bradley shakes his head, accepting the tea she hands him.

"No. That is all, Lieutenant."


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you all for your lovely comments! I've largely planned out the entire series so hopefully I can update this at least twice a month. Fingers crossed real life doesn't get in the way lmao. Comments are always encouraged and I hope you enjoy this next instalment!_

 _Guest: ty for the review!_

* * *

He watches her carefully for the next few weeks – and she does a _very_ good job of appearing not to notice. He knows she does though. There's a line in between her shoulders that hasn't disappeared since she started working for him, and the faint purple bags under her eyes belies a different story from the one she is presenting. They are very small details, but they are details nonetheless – and it pleases Bradley that she isn't coping as well as he originally thought.

Riza Hawkeye might be a good actor, but King Bradley is better.

It's amusing to watch her scurry around him like a timid mouse – he knows that she has teeth but rarely does she bare them – even around him; even when he considers killing her openly, to her face.

It makes him wonder what could spark a proper reaction from her. Every human has their breaking point and while Colonel Mustang's could be seen a mile off, the Lieutenant's appears to be more complicated. Mustang is involved – of that he has no doubt, those two are so intertwined by this point it is _ridiculous_ – but the Lieutenant does not wear her heart openly for others to examine at their leisure.

She is not quite as moronic as her beloved, and Bradley reassures himself that this is the reason why she has been at the forefront of his thoughts recently. She is _very_ quiet, and without proper surveillance it would be too easy for her to slip back into obscurity, become another nameless soldier in his detail, expendable, disposable, _nonessential_.

Lieutenant Hawkeye is an efficient soldier, he'll acknowledge that much. She never complains, never speaks out of turn, and never brings attention to herself for personal gain. Others would call her the perfect soldier, but King Bradley has seen perfect soldiers come and go throughout the years. Perfect soldiers are loyal to the country they serve – Lieutenant Hawkeye is most _certainly_ not loyal to her country. She is loyal to a man who dares to have the audacity to _presume_ his rightful position is at the top of this country.

It is her only flaw. It is the worst type of flaw she could possibly have, and he hates her for it.

It is late afternoon when she knocks on his office door and enters, arms filled with papers and folders. He is quiet as she approaches his desk, eyes down and a blank expression on her face as she briefly pauses to salute before placing the folders and paperwork on the corner of his desk.

"These are due by the end of next week," she murmurs, sorting it into two piles. "These ones concern some changes to policy that your council has suggested-" she taps a finger to the smaller pile, "-and these are regarding requests from the districts. I would recommend looking at those first, sir."

It is certainly a large pile. Bradley leans back in his chair, regarding her carefully while she waits for further orders. "Why would you say that, Lieutenant Hawkeye?" he asks.

She doesn't even shift where she is standing – a lesser soldier would have adjusted their position, to give themselves more time to think. She is still – unnaturally so. He smiles benignly.

"Your council is just reporting different variations of the same thing; the districts all have individual requests, sir."

Bradley nods slowly. "So you think that I should not listen to the big issue – of which many people agree on – and instead, focus on a small issue that may only pertain to a small amount of individuals?"

The Lieutenant nods without hesitation. "Of course. The problem with a big issue is that people are lost amongst the politics. In the end, the individuals will not matter – and then the issue has lost any meaning."

The smile slides off his face abruptly and he stands, moving from behind his desk to face her. Her face remains impassive as he nears her – her eyes narrow only _slightly_ as he moves into her personal space. A muscle twitches slightly above her lip.

"Sir?" she asks, no trace of hesitance in her tone. Her hands are clasped behind her back and she meets his gaze firmly.

She isn't afraid of him. _Why isn't she afraid of him?_ He could cut her down right where she stands, he could force the breath out of her with a single hand, he could make her scream in a _thousand_ different ways for mercy if he so chose – _why isn't she afraid?_

Against his better judgment, his hand reaches up and unclasps her hair from her clip swiftly, watching with interest as she pulls back slightly, her eyes narrowing slightly. There is a battle waging in her face for the briefest moment before it vanishes, and then it is like nothing happened; like this is a completely normal occurrence in her life.

Her hair is longer than he anticipated, and it curls slightly around her shoulders. He takes a lock of hair between his fingers carefully, noting the soft texture and how the sun glints off it – her hair is not just blonde, but a whole spectrum of colours. He can hear her breathing – faster than normal, and her eyes are darting around the room, never focusing.

But still, she remains quiet, obedient, and still. Humans are so _strange_ he thinks, carefully tucking the errant lock behind her ear. She is warm, and he can almost feel her pulse jolting erratically beneath her skin. It is the most alive he has ever seen her.

Bradley pulls back, and places her comb on the larger pile of paperwork. She waits, staring at something beyond him in the room. Her face has lost all colour and there is a rigidness to how she holds herself – her elbows look too sharp, her jaw is jutting out a little too much and he can see now that she is trembling – just barely, but it is there.

He nods at her, regarding her coolly, before leaving the room. The paperwork can wait.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much for all the reviews/comments! It's great to hear that people are enjoying this (I know I am – getting into Wrath's headspace is two parts interesting and seventeen parts terrifying)._

 _Currently I'm aiming for about ten chapters – but Wrath has a tendency of going in a completely different direction than I intended. I do have an endgame – it just might take a while to get there haha. Comments are always appreciated and encouraged. You guys make it worth writing!_

 _Guest: tysm for your review! The chapter lengths will fluctuate as I don't really want to put in too much filler as I think it would detract from the overall feeling of the collection._

* * *

"It's becoming sickening to watch you grow infatuated with yet another human, little brother."

It is late on a Friday night, and Bradley sits in his study, catching up on paperwork that he had not been able to complete during his working hours. His job may be nothing more than ceremonial in the larger scheme of this country, yet it would not do to get behind in his work. There is only so far he can push and prod in this human role before the others around him will notice.

Of course, it would be a lot easier if he wasn't dealing with a sulky homunculi stalking around his study in a bid to seem important and _necessary._ Neither of them particularly enjoys the little charade of doting father and son – but sacrifices must be made in order to support their father. It is the least they could do for their creator, after all.

It would also be far more pleasant if Pride took his tantrums elsewhere, however. King Bradley may be his father, but Wrath is certainly not and he does _not_ enjoy being lorded over by a homunculi that would be better suited to the body of a peacock than a young child.

Bradley deigns not to reply, instead skimming another expenses report from his council. He would never admit it to the woman, but she had a point about the district's reports. At least they had variety.

"Did you hear me, little brother?"

He tries his best not to crush the fountain pen in his grasp. "How could I not?" Bradley replies, taking a deep breath before looking up to see the small, not-child before him. It's always a little disconcerting to see his people-face drop away in favour of a far more primal expression. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asks, resting his elbows on the desk. "Nanny Bell will be wondering where you've gotten to."

" _Nanny Bell_ ," Pride hisses vehemently, "is not who I'm talking about."

Bradley shrugs, looking back down to his paperwork. "It's your funeral kid," he comments, focusing his attention back on his work. "She chewed out your mother this afternoon – I wouldn't want to get in her way."

Pride practically _roars_ in the small room – the force of which extinguishes the cracking fire in the fireplace, suddenly throwing the room into darkness, moonlight barely seeping through the pulled curtains. Bradley feels the room trembling, as Pride's shadows cover everything but him. It is a dangerous hum, like angered wasps waiting for the right time to strike. He puts down his pen, and feels the static of shadows sparking at his fingertips.

"Are you quite done?" he asks, bored.

Pride snarls.

"Mother is a necessary evil, I understand," the first homunculus begins, his voice shifting from in front of Bradley to behind him. Bradley ignores the prickling feeling on the back of his neck.

"And she has her uses, too, I suppose," Pride continues. "She is a dutiful wife, and you are discreet with her – _don't think I don't know how you feel about her_ ," he threatens, and Bradley feels the shadows moving over his shoulder, down his arm. "But this recent infatuation with the Lieutenant Hawkeye is interesting to say the least…not to mention _dangerous_. Need I be worried, little brother?"

Bradley sighs, unclenching his jaw as subtly as he can. "The Lieutenant cannot remain oblivious to her position in my detail," he answers, feeling the slick of the shadows begin to move off his body. "The point of a hostage, after all, is to know you are in danger."

"And playing with her hair ensures that?" Pride all but _shrieks_ , the shadows suddenly doubling on his person once more.

"Death threats get boring after a while," he replies casually, enjoying how Pride snarls again, pulling away from him quickly. "If she is unsettled then _Mustang_ is unsettled. You may be older than me, Pride," the name curls around his tongue strangely, "but she is already wary of you far longer than she was of me."

"Because she thinks my father is a monster," he challenges, the cadences becoming more childlike with every uttered syllable. "You lack any subtlety when it comes to these pitiful creatures. This is why you human homunculi are hardly any better than the humans themselves." He goes to the door and slips out quickly.

The hum of the shadows disappears, and Bradley snaps the fountain pen in his grasp.


	4. Chapter 4

_I'm back my dudes so buckle in – we're veering into the au-ish territory where the real fun begins!_

 _Eggs - tysm! I'm glad you're enjoying this!_

 _Jello - I'm happy to hear I'm nailing the characterisations right!_

* * *

Bradley quickly comes to realise that Lieutenant Hawkeye is becoming a problem. Even with his death threats, Pride skulking around her like a hyena whenever she has to make a late-night visit to the mansion (and he _knows_ that she knows that something is following her there, she always looks so pale and gaunt in the lamplight in a way that is different during the day), but she has almost learned to absorb these stresses, instead somehow becoming _more_ resolute rather than less.

What's the human phrase? _Like water off a duck's back._

Riza Hawkeye was swimming in some very dangerous waters indeed.

Wrath decides that he must take a new course of action. She was _his_ responsibility, after all, and considering that Pride was becoming almost insufferable in his comments he decides his action must be swift. She had grown too accustomed to her role as his personal aide – so he needs to uproot her and destabilise her once more – make her aware of her vulnerability constantly.

He didn't fancy his chances trying to touch her again. He could – of course he _could_ – but she wouldn't let him have that particular satisfaction any longer.

He had to keep her close, too. Placing her outside his direct jurisdiction ran the risk of her going rogue, or missing entirely – while Wrath couldn't _prove_ that Mustang _hadn't_ killed Maria Ross in cold blood – he had a niggling feeling that they were all being played for fools, and that did not sit well with him.

The idea strikes him while she makes him his tea one Thursday afternoon. His office smells of sugar and a darjeeling blend from a country south of Aerugo. He watches her carefully as she prepares it – he doesn't know whether she is counting or simply has a very good internal clock – but she always manages to strain before the five minute mark where the tannins become too bitter, and the two teaspoons she mixes in are always so _precise_ even though she is hardly watching herself.

Wrath spends a few weeks deliberating over his decision, but in the end he is sure he has made the right one. The look on her face alone when he informs her certainly makes up for some of the confusion he's desperately trying to ignore.

"I don't quite understand, sir." The Lieutenant stands before him in his office, with perfect posture and an expression that Bradley wagers is doing a good job of not belying the flurry of emotions she must be feeling.

She is not used to playing chess like he is, like her _beloved_ superior officer is. Her heart rate has increased slightly – well, it always does around him and he can't help but feel _proud_ of that – and there's a tightness in her jaw where there wasn't before.

"There has been a number of dossiers on my desk that point to a terrorist faction pooling their resources towards an attack on my family," he says matter-of-factly, brushing a piece of lint off his sleeve in a bored fashion. "My family is of the utmost importance to me-"

She shifts, just _barely_ and inwardly he celebrates. Humans were so fragile and _obnoxious_ with their emotions: even Major General Armstrong, who was known as the 'Ice Queen' amongst her peers, still primped and preened in the meetings with the upper echelon. Lieutenant Hawkeye, for all her reservedness, still spoke volumes in the few tells that she had – and it was blatantly obvious that his family – both true and artificial – was a sore point for her.

Perhaps the idea of family itself was what got a rise out of her. They had very few resources on her – and almost none on Mustang entirely, something that Bradley thought was hardly a coincidence – despite Envy's continued probing, the two of them (bar their military records and psychological profiles) remained as anonymous as they had been when they entered the academy.

He would admit it was an oversight on his part that there were so many clerical errors and lost files in the furore of the Ishvallan Civil War – especially in the Eastern district, where Eastern Headquarters and surrounding administrations were stretched to capacity in dealing with resources as well as a continual influx of soldiers. It certainly didn't help matters _now,_ when trying to find any more leverage on the duo was proving harder than convincing Gluttony that not everyone he came across needed to be eaten.

"-and I expect you to follow direct orders, _Lieutenant Hawkeye_ ," he continues deliberately, stressing her surname with a little more emphasis than strictly necessary. The tensing of her jaw is still there but beyond that she is like a statue – perfectly still, perfectly made.

"Yes, sir," she replies clearly, her eyes focused on a spot behind him in the office. "Is there anything else you require?"

Bradley hesitates, before shaking his head and waving his hand in dismissal. "No, Lieutenant Hawkeye. That will be all. Louisa will be expecting you after lunch today, so until then you are dismissed to prepare for your new detail."

She salutes, before turning on her heel and leaving his office at a brisk pace. He watches her as she disappears behind the heavy oak door, sipping on the lukewarm tea he had forgotten about.

Louisa had been more than thrilled when he had proposed the idea to her. Perhaps some insight into his life would be the reminder the Lieutenant needed of what was at stake.


	5. Chapter 5

_sorry i've been gone for ten months. i had to reprioritise and then adjust accordingly. i left this dangling for far too long. please accept the rest, as well as my deepest apologies. ty for remaining with this fic until the bitter end._

 _mrs bradley is a deeply interesting character for me. i hope u enjoy my interpretation of her and her motivations._

* * *

The compartment they share in the train is well-furbished – as expected for the wife and child of the Führer. No expense has been spared for their comfort, nor has their safety.

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye sits like a porcelain doll, perched on her seat and seemingly unable to relax the harsh line of her shoulders. She's not a tiny thing, but there is something in her posture that makes her _seem_ smaller: like she wants to take up as little space as humanly possible.

Louisa feels sorry for the girl. She had been quiet and polite as they had made their way towards Central Grand to embark on a short holiday to the South. Louisa had told her husband that she wished to visit her younger sister.

In actuality, she wants to know more about this woman who has caused somewhat of a…disruption in her household. She doesn't suspect her husband of cheating on her – no, the Führer may just be a _man_ but Louisa has more faith than that of her society-sisters', who dim their hearts and minds from whatever truth is skulking in their husband's hands and between their lips. He knows _her_ better too, knows better than to flaunt his indiscretions right in front of her.

Louisa Bradley is a proud woman, confident in her standing. She doesn't understand why _Riza Hawkeye_ isn't as well.

"Are you quite well, dear?" she asks kindly, tilting her head as she considers the woman sitting opposite her. The Lieutenant's eyes dart jerkily back to her from where they had been resting, at some unknown space out in the corridor. For a moment there's only the sound of steel on steel, and the vibrations of the wooden carriages. Hawkeye nods once, her lips drawn tight.

Selim snores a little in his sleep, and Louisa runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly, marvelling at how _soft_ his hair always manages to be. "I didn't mean to make your life even more hectic with this trip," she begins slowly, noting how Hawkeye's shoulders never lose that taut line of tension. "If I may be honest with you, I've never had the luxury of a female bodyguard before."

The other woman nods. There's something holding her back. Louisa has a feeling she already knows what it is.

Selim snores once more.

"I apologise for Selim's tantrum at the station earlier. He's a good kid, most of the time," Louisa remarks, adjusting the silk scarf around her neck. "But he has his moments."

"I imagine most children are like that, ma'am."

"Selim's not like most children though." Louisa tries to school her expression into one of motherly pride rather than satisfaction as Riza Hawkeye _finally_ gives her a reaction that is true and not rehearsed. For all her professionalism, her husband had been right: their family is apparently a sore spot for the woman. Louisa doesn't envy her position in the slightest – away from anything familiar, with people who would sooner cut her than try to help her escape the wolves that stalk Central Headquarters. Her own family – one forged through blood and the experiences that only soldiers understand – is a long way from here. She is right to be mistrustful. Louisa would sooner push the Lieutenant into oncoming traffic than have her son save her once more.

"He is very bright." Hawkeye replies, composing herself. Her hands are balled into fists and her knuckles are almost blanched white.

"Too much for his own good," Louisa admits freely, enjoying how _easy_ it is to make her squirm. The other soldiers that protect her husband all come from the same stock: one that is ultimately self-serving and doesn't hold any kind of _real_ deference for her spouse's position. They would serve the next Führer with the same clinical approach, with hardly an acknowledgement for what her husband has sacrificed for this country.

Riza Hawkeye isn't like that.

Riza Hawkeye has deference in _spades_ , and suddenly Louisa realises exactly what has caused her beloved and her son to become so irate in these last few months.

There is no respect in her eyes, in her tone, in how she holds herself towards them. She serves them dutifully, and nothing more. Louisa is more than aware of the lengths this woman has gone to protect her own superior officer – and though her husband insists that is all they are, she is a _wife_ and wives know these sorts of things. You cannot shed your skin overnight, nor can you shed years of loyalty and affection. It sinks into your bones, embeds into you at a molecular level. It makes no difference whether they _are_ or not – though Louisa would call Mustang a fool if he hasn't taken advantage of everything and _everyone_ laid out at his disposal.

Hesitancy does not belong with the crown.

Louisa knows that Hawkeye has no aspirations for their position, there is no hint of the jealousy that she often spies in the younger wives of general's – catty young things lured with the promise of prestige and gold. Hawkeye isn't like them. She simply understands _implicitly_ that their days are numbered. She understands that she will be there to watch them fall.

Louisa feels the bitterness of truth settle on her tongue, and decides that if she is to be usurped, she will do everything in her power to see that her family survives whatever horror comes at the hands of Colonel Mustang and First Lieutenant Hawkeye.

"I should wake up Selim," Louisa says quietly. "Or he won't sleep at all tonight."

Hawkeye nods cautiously, and Louisa doesn't try to hide her smile this time.


	6. Chapter 6

The week that Pride reveals himself to the Lieutenant, Wrath breaks sixty-five tea cups.

There is no pity lingering in her eyes, no understanding, no _nothing._ Before, he thinks that there must have been a small part of her that clung to the idea of their family as being his saving grace. His only absolution.

The week that Pride reveals himself to the Lieutenant, she becomes nothing more than a hollow husk of a person. She makes his tea. She writes up reports with the same kind of clinical efficiency that Wrath has found himself to rely upon on more than one occasion, despite the short tenure she has had under his direct command. She does all of this without batting an eyelid, without a change to her gait, without a single sign that _anything_ is amiss.

The fact that he cannot see any discernible sign that she has been _changed_ from this newfound knowledge frustrates him more than he would like to admit. Pride skulks the hallways of Central Command more often now, gloating and jeering about how the Lieutenant twitches _just so_ when she rounds a corner and sees the familiar gleam of white teeth against the walls. It is all such a _fun game_ to him. He gives daily reports about how her head turns a little more to the left when she hears a noise behind her, how sometimes she will pause mid-report and look out the window towards the southern wing of Central Command. Pride calls her weak, baseless. Wrath knows better, and instead bites his tongue and bides his time.

In addition to the sixty-five tea cups, Wrath also snaps seventy-four fountain pens, completely shatters both his practice swords in quick succession, and chips a tooth.

"I need you to organise a dentist appointment for me, Lieutenant Hawkeye," he asks her one afternoon, after trying (and failing miserably) to enjoy his usual afternoon tea. She nods, drawing her notepad from where it sits on the far edge of her desk, quickly jotting it down.

"Do you have any preference for a practice, or is there someone that the family doctor would recommend?"

It is a simple enough question – certainly innocuous – but it throws him for a loop regardless. Despite only having limited advantages over the human body, this is the first time Wrath finds himself in the unlikely position of showing weakness, chipped tooth or not. The family doctor is simply a smokescreen – a man who has limited medical knowledge, enough to always insist to Louisa that their child's heath is wonderful, enough to convince Louisa herself that any significant ailment she suffers from personally deserves to be only seen by the best of the best. Even for a human, she is a hale one. Bradley can only think of a couple of instances in the last decade where she's endured anything more than the common cold.

A chipped tooth signifies a greater problem. He _knows_ he is not infallible, but never has the reality been splayed out before him quite so obviously. It does not bode well for him, sinking low in his gut and coiling uncomfortably. He is showing age, showing wear and tear. A fracture is only the tip of the iceberg, and Wrath wonders if the Lieutenant will file this piece of information away for later, to mull over and consider the ramifications as he is doing.

He wonders if she will share it with _him_ , as she has undoubtedly done with the truth of Selim Bradley. They often sit together at lunch, heads ducked low as they eat whatever the cafeteria has produced. Scuttlebutt is rife about the two of them, and Wrath doesn't know how to approach that particular minefield. There is always an element of truth to whatever rumour is floating around, and he doesn't want to try exploring and dissecting the fact from fiction, let alone understand _why_ he is so bothered with who she spends her limited free time with.

They both know they are being watched.

Wrath wonders if they realise just how intently.


	7. Chapter 7

In the days leading up to the Promised Day, Wrath finds himself growing anxious with this…lack of acknowledgement from the Lieutenant. Plans are being set into motion, the Generals' are being given their orders.

Riza Hawkeye still brews his tea with the same methodical attitude she has given to the rest of her posting: be quick, be quiet, be _gone._ Today is only two days before the Promised Day and Wrath, despite not being a betting man, would wager on his life that tonight when his train departs for the East that the Lieutenant will not be on it. He knows that something has been coordinated between Grumman and _his_ dog of the military – and Mustang had already proven himself dangerous at close range when it came to his siblings. It was more prudent to stall his plans on the other end. Central soldiers would remain loyal to their King.

She is leaning over the small table to set down the tray, laden with an assortment of biscuits when he clears his throat pointedly. She looks up, and Wrath rejoices in the pure confusion on her face. He has missed the fleeting signs of humanity in this office.

"Sir?"

He gestures to the seat opposite him. "Please, join me."

She goes very still, before nodding. "Thank you, sir." He watches as she crosses the room to get another cup and saucer, the pattern on the china bright and vibrant against the waning afternoon sun. She takes her tea differently to his – less milk, but more sugar. They sit in silence for a while, Wrath considering his words with care. If he was a more cautious man, he would ensure that today she would not leave his sight. But he likes a challenge, likes the thrill of the chase.

"I have thought for a while over this, Lieutenant Hawkeye, and I believe firmly in the concept of honesty being the best policy. So-" he gauges her over his teacup, watching as the skin around her eyes tighten ever so slightly. "You have my permission to speak as freely as you wish to me. I will not take offense."

"You make it sound as though these will be my last words." Her wit comes quickly, and Wrath is somewhat shocked at how much he enjoys even this sliver of the person behind the uniform. "But I thank you for the opportunity. I can't say many of my commanding officers would give me this much leeway."

He inclines his head and takes some shortbread. "I cannot imagine why."

She buries her smirk into her teacup and Wrath thinks that it is such a shame that they ended up on opposite sides of the track like this, warring with words and calculating the best way to render the other inert.

It's a far cry from his earlier opinion of her.

"Your people mask isn't very good," she says suddenly, casually. She could be recalling the morning weather report for the lack of emphasis or gravitas in her voice. Wrath sets down his teacup carefully, mindful of the fact that it is the twelfth set purchased in the last month.

"Would you care to elaborate on that?" The Lieutenant also puts down her teacup after a moment, sitting up straighter in her chair.

"Well, it's more the fact that you don't have one. You rely on your position to fill in the gaps and assume that we will all bow and give you deference. I would ask myself why nobody had ever questioned you before about it, but we both know the answer to that." She's clearly bored as she inspects the biscuit selection on the tray, only glancing up to see his face briefly. "It's appalling, in hindsight. The Colonel said that you weren't sure whose soul was left at the end of the…transformation, I suppose. It's certainly not human, try as you might to appear that way."

"I think it's very easy for you to come to that conclusion with the knowledge of who I am – my wife-"

"Don't play me for a fool, King Bradley." She interrupts him swiftly, no hint of a smirk left on her face now. "Louisa is a _very_ smart woman and has played her cards well. Don't debase her with the notion that you would chose anything less than the best."

He can feel the familiar buzzing underneath his skin. She is watching him very carefully now, and he realises too late that she _wants_ to get a rise out of him, make him regret his actions. The irony is not lost on him of just how bizarrely parallel their lives are right now, how inverted this situation is.

She wants him angry, for whatever reason. Wrath believes in gut feelings, relies on them with his swordplay. He won't deny that he hasn't also been itching for this moment. They have been circling each other warily like sharks, unsure of when to strike, when to assert dominance. It has been building for months and now, in the quiet afternoon presented to them, he can think of no better time than to prove their worth to each other. Their fights have always been in the hidden spaces, little rebellions where they could manage them without crossing over the boundaries set so early on.

Wrath wants to have her see him as she _should_ – not this imperfect human prototype that she has accused him of being. The insult runs deeper than he wants to admit.

He stands and removes his coat. She mirrors him, fingers quick against the brass and all too suddenly the space in the office is too small, too cramped. Her hand is resting behind her, undoubtedly palming the gun in her holster, and his fingers twitch over the pommel of his new sword.

He walks slowly, deliberately around her, sizing her up. Every angle of her is pulled taut; ready to move at a moment's notice. He draws closer, enjoying the way her breath quickens and how her head steadily turns to meet his. The angle of her neck pulls against the fabric of her turtleneck and Bradley is momentarily stunned at the revelation of ink on her skin. It's only an inch or two at best, but the Latin and the geometric angles are enough for him to put the pieces together and realise _–_

" _You let him mark you?"_

Her reaction is instantaneous – she moves to strike him, and he reacts on instinct. There's a moment where they are simply fluid movement; muscles that have been trained and honed for the incidents like this. She is unparalleled, a _supreme_ specimen of human willpower but he is _more_ and the thought that he may finally have met his match does not sit well in his stomach.

Her hand is pressing against the blade of his sword and she's bleeding, it's dripping bright red down her arm to her elbow and down the polished steel, but she does not notice she does not notice _she does not notice_ –

This loyalty she has for Mustang will kill her before he has a chance to do it himself. Her _devotion_ – it goes beyond the normal bounds: it is something almost horrifying in her inability to protect herself first and foremost. _Mustang is a killer_ , he thinks angrily. "He marked you with his symbol," he says lowly, watching his blade very carefully because if either of them shifts even a millimetre, her whole hand will be cleaved cleanly in two. "He has – has _corrupted_ you."

She stares at him, hatred etched into every line of her face. She is glorious like this – finally letting go of the compulsion of duty that held her back for so long. She wears it well – almost as well as him.

"Perhaps I would've married you instead," he says softly, watching her carefully as the sword digs a little deeper into her palm – she does not flinch or move, and Wrath cannot understand _why._

Her other hand, he realises (with an emotion akin to shock) is firmly wrapped around her pistol and her aim is steady on his temple.

"You would have made a good wife for me."

For the first time, Lieutenant Hawkeye looks properly frightened – before her brow furrows in revulsion.

"Do not mistake my pity for some misguided affection," she snarls, readjusting her grip on the pistol. "I could never love a monster who murders without a care for his actions."

"And so is Colonel Mustang. There is more blood on his hands than my own – I certainly do not forget the tens of thousands he killed with his alone. If you can accept a monster like Mustang into your heart and treasure him so dearly, then it's not entirely far-fetched the same could apply to me."

"Can you even feel _remorse_?" she hurls back scathingly, teeth bared. "I sincerely hope that Ishvalla is waiting for you as I know He waits for me."

"I didn't peg you for a convert, Lieutenant."

"I don't need to be one when I know my fate is waiting for me." She is fire, she is _glory_ in this moment: Wrath thinks her like the sun. All blinding brightness and violence. It is the kind of tragic beauty that men kill for. That he would – _could_ – kill for.

He lifts his sword off her hand and wipes the blade clean with a handkerchief. She stands there, blood spilling over her palm. Her arm is slowly being stained a dark red as her complexion grows pallid. She does not move, gun still firmly trained on him. The wound is a clean one at least, he thinks as he quickly rips tea towels into long strips. She watches him warily as he approaches her once more.

"May I?" He offers up the strips of cloth and for a moment he thinks she will reject him and walk out the room, blood flowing profusely from her palm. It would be a scandal – and would ensure he would have to postpone his trip to the East most certainly. Instead, she extends her hand towards him, tilting her palm to the side so the blood flows cleanly off. He is quick about dressing the wound, mindful of the pressure he must exert to staunch the flow as well as the adrenaline high she will be coming off.

Her blood blooms through the layers of cotton, and she is looking paler by the minute. He ties knots as quickly as he can manage before releasing her hand. The carpet between them is an ugly burgundy, the tang of iron cloying in the air. He has never seen her more alive than how she is right now, brow sweaty and hair mussed.

Her gun remains trained on him, unwavering through it all.

"Your humanity will be your downfall, Lieutenant Hawkeye." It is the closest thing he will give her to a concession, an acknowledgement.

There is a beat before she replies – quietly, hesitantly.

"As will yours, sir."


End file.
